Sins of the flesh are nothing. They are maladies for physicians to cure, if they should be cured. Sins of the soul alone are shameful.

The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.

It is only the unimaginative who ever invents. The true artist is known by the use he makes of what he annexes.

It is absurd to say that there are neither ruins nor curiosities in America when they have their mothers and their manners.

Far away beyond the pine-woods,' he answered, in a low dreamy voice, 'there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.

Philanthropy [has become] simply the refuge of people who wish to annoy their fellow creatures.

Without order nothing can exist-without chaos nothing can evolve. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.